


Brave, As You Were

by msmoocow



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoocow/pseuds/msmoocow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever said it would be this hard. When Kurt leaves, Blaine finds out for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave, As You Were

**Author's Note:**

> It’s no secret that I was deeply, deeply dissatisfied with The Break-Up. Not with the infidelity, which I maintain is not out of character for anyone, but with the execution. This is my attempt to get into Blaine’s headspace. My intention was not to excuse him, but to try to understand him while reshaping all the pieces of potential RIB+ gave us into something that made much more sense to me.
> 
> Warnings for homophobic bullying and racism.
> 
> Get a PDF version of the fic [here](http://www.mediafire.com/view/?v2f718p08y7ws8b) if you want! I had issues with the way Ao3's downloader displays the tables and images. They look much better in this file. :)

"So um. Do we just start, or?" Blaine fidgets with the collar on his pajama shirt. He probably should have changed into something sexier, maybe, but the sight of Kurt is so warm and familiar that anything else seems like window dressing.

"Blaine Anderson," Kurt purrs from the Skype window. "What kind of boy do you think I am?"

Blaine smiles goofily, pleasantly giddy just from two minutes online with Kurt. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression that you'd be putting out tonight, but I can look elsewhere..."

"Don't you dare," Kurt warns, jabbing a finger into his monitor where Blaine imagines his own forehead to be. "Or I'm packing a bag and _walking_ to your house to break up this affair."

"But Kurt," Blaine says, forcing his smile into a frown. "That's six hundred miles. Two hundred hours of walking. You'd have to wear out about three pairs of boots to get here in time."

Kurt tilts his head. "Six hundred miles? Really?"

"I may have looked it up. Anyway," he continues, "you'd never get here in time to stop me and, uh..."

"Humphrey, the rakishly handsome butler," Kurt helpfully supplies.

"...me and _Humphrey_ from conducting our illicit activities."

"Hm." Blaine watches Kurt pretend to think hard, running his fingers along his sharp jawline, the soft plane of his neck. Blaine swallows. "I guess we'll just have to keep that from happening."

"I guess we will," Blaine whispers, as Kurt lifts his sweater up and off, letting it fall to the bed behind him.

-

The third week of school is rush week, and the halls are full of club sign-up sheets. In the east wing, a blond cheerleader smiles with pointy teeth and hands out flyers for the celibacy club. Tina beams with knives in her eyes as she tries to recruit new members for glee. By the library, Brett cups his hands around his mouth and endorses a pottery club, standing with his face to a wall like it holds a secret.

It's chaos between classes, people tugging him back and forth to promote their clubs, but Blaine tries to listen to one person per period — at least, until it becomes impossible to focus. Blaine is a good listener, a great one, but after a point on Tuesday afternoon he starts to respond on autopilot, nodding and repeating "I'll check the bulletin board for details, thank you so much."

Which is where he finds himself after school, staring at the spread of sign-up sheets on the wall, absentmindedly scratching at his bowtie and pondering his options. The Gay/Jew Alliance looks interesting, but the meeting times clash with glee. Zombie survival club requires a $200 materials fee. There's baking club, but he doesn't have much experience making anything that didn't come from a pre-mixed box.

(He and Kurt baked a couple of times over the summer — once, Kurt had taught him and Burt how to make a sticky toffee pudding, with Blaine in charge of sifting and Burt in charge of chopping dates, but while the batter sat baking in the oven, Burt disappeared, and Blaine remembers how Kurt had drawn him close, trailing sticky knuckles down Blaine's throat and licking after, pressing along the length of him, backing him into the counter — )

A cold slap shocks him back to reality; his white shirt is stained purple, practically see-through and dripping with slushie. He turns to his left, where two football players make no pretense — they're laughing at him, loud and open, high-fiving and smirking with so much artless pride. "Sup, fag," one hisses, jerking his chin upwards. They walk away, still chuckling.

Blaine blinks the corn syrup out of his eyes and shivers, pulling his shirt away from his body. Okay. Okay. He considers the damage. The shirt may be salvageable if he heads home now and puts it in the wash. Kurt's voice is soothing and urgent in his mind (" _Hot water, hot as you can get it, and no soap!_ ") but he takes one last look at the wall, scanning for something he can join. There's so much _time_ to fill, and so much he wants to do.

A year out of Dalton and the public school social hierarchy still shocks him sometimes, how the meritocratic facade means people will cheer your name when you bring in a trophy and turn around and slam you into a locker without a second thought. How different it was at Dalton, with no lower class, where there were leaders and followers but there was always _respect_.

Well. Most of the time. The Warblers had fallen apart after he'd left. He knows he can't blame his own absence for the way things had gone. Sebastian was at the wheel of every bad decision, yet Blaine can't help but wonder how differently things would have gone if he had inherited Wes's gavel, if he had been the one entrusted to lead the group to victory.

There were the seeds of trouble, of course. As painful as it is to admit, the transformation was hardly sudden or unexpected. Sebastian only led, coerced — he didn't _control_. His old friends had made their own decisions.

Blaine thinks about a Warbler council under his own leadership. Could he have saved them?

And then he sees it, the lone sign on the wall directly to the right of the bulletin board. The only name on the list is Brittany S. Pierce, letter by letter in bright, cheerful crayon. He loves Brittany, but what McKinley needs is a _leader_.

He doesn't hesitate much longer, pulling a pen from his bag and writing _Blaine Anderson_ on the second line.

Blaine Anderson, student body presidential candidate.

The sound of it makes him smile.

-

This week's glee assignment is "debut," chosen because half the kids are seniors and the other half — Unique, Marley, Jake — is new to glee. Mr. Schue wants them to sing about a new school year and all that entails. Presenting yourself to the world, Blaine thinks, the way you want to be seen. Choosing your own image and controlling it. _Owning_ it.

Tina performs a fantastic rendition of "Pretty Girl Rock", alone at the mic stand, throwing saucy glances over her shoulder. "Girls think I'm conceited 'cause I know I'm attractive," she sings, running her hands lightly down her sides and winking at Blaine, who returns the wink with a fond, encouraging thumbs-up.

Artie's song is "Stand Up" by Ludacris, and he gives Blaine a significant look after he raps, " _lemme see something_ ". When Mr. Schue blinks, confusion apparent all over his face, Artie sighs. "It's a metaphor," he clarifies, wheeling himself back beside Sam.

Unique sings "I'm Coming Out", brassy and confident, and at the end Blaine holds out his hand for her to high-five. He's up next, and he takes the floor.

" _Hey baby, won't you look my way, I could be your new addiction._ " Blaine bops his way through the first verse, tugging Tina up and twirling her as she wags a playful finger in his face. " _It started with a whisper, and that was when I kissed her._ "

It's Blaine's favorite kind of performance, the kind that has always come so naturally to him. He knows how to work a crowd, no matter the size. In the small, safe space the choir room provides, the ease is limitless; he gets his friends up and dancing, blissfullly bouncing around to the upbeat song. It's joy, like he wanted, and the tentative unease he'd sensed from the new members fades from view. They're happy, and that's all Blaine needs to see.

Tina takes out her phone and films a few seconds of his performance. At the end, he blows a kiss to the camera, fluttering his fingers and grinning toothily. His eyebrows are probably doing that pointy thing he hates, but Kurt thinks it's adorable and he knows Tina's going to post it to Kurt's Facebook wall tonight.

-

| 

hello <3  
  
---|---  
  
| 

hi handsome!

how was your day?  
  
| 

great!

did you see the video tina posted?  
  
| 

the one of artie doing luda proud and checking out your ass?  
  
| 

noooo, the one with me singing neon trees!

wait, what about my ass?

never mind just watch it!  
  
| 

i just finshed

you're adorable <3  
  
| 

i hoped you'd say that :)  
  
| 

i miss you so much :(  
  
| 

me toooo  
  
| 

i see the new kids are fitting in great  
  
| 

yeah they did really well

marley helped us all get the best parts of the thursday special at lunch  
  
| 

ew, the casserole surprise? nice of her to save you from a bout of IBS  
  
| 

and how are you doing?  
  
| 

good! work is great. everyone's so NICE here

well, not always nice

but i love it  
  
| 

i'm glad <3

i love YOU  
  
| 

oh my god

you're the cheesiest  
  
| 

you love it  
  
| 

i love YOU  
  
| 

:)  
  
The conversation trails off after that, both focused on other things. (Kurt likes to send Blaine eBay links under the guise of seeking input, but Blaine knows his own opinion never really matters when Kurt's shopping.)

Blaine clicks around, answering a wall post from his uncle and liking a few statuses. _Thad Warbler is in a relationship_ , he reads, wondering if Thad even has a real last name. A few pokes clutter his inbox, which he always returns out of courtesy: one from the Crawford girl who's never stopped flirting, and one from Santana. ("I'm poking you in the rump roasts," she'd said when they first became Facebook friends. Blaine's still not really sure what that means.)

And there's one from Eli C., a name he doesn't recognize, but he returns it politely, smiling as he shrugs, because what harm could it come to?

-

Choosing — accepting, really — Sam as his running mate means two things. One is that Blaine now truly, _fully_ understands his own capacity for patience. Sam is a lot of things — funny, supportive, a great listener — but he needs a lot of work.

"How do you feel about the current academic workload?" Blaine asks, reading from a flashcard of potential debate topics he'd printed. "Do you agree with the criticism that twenty hours of homework per week is too much for the average high school student to handle?"

Sam shakes his head emphatically. "No, sir. The more books a student has to carry each day, the more muscle he or she builds. Physical fitness is very important."

A _lot_ of work.

"Okay." Blaine scrubs his palms together, standing on the balls of his feet. "How about you just — just try to look vice presidential. Can you do that?"

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman."

Blaine sighs heavily, throwing his palms to the ceiling. He laughs though, shaking his head.

(The second thing is that, despite Blaine's frustrations, Sam really is funny, supportive, _and_ a great listener. He hasn't nodded off once while Blaine talks about Kurt's life in New York and how they'll be together in a year and _did you hear? Kurt got Anna Wintour's tacit approval in his first two weeks at Vogue.com!_ It feels like...like Sam _cares_ , and it shouldn't be this flattering, but Blaine can't help but be gratified.)

"I don't think that's actually very vice presidential."

"Whatever," Sam says, clapping his hand on Blaine's shoulder, pitching his voice deep and serious. "Aim for the moon and land among the stars."

-

Apparently Sam's idea of aiming for the moon is flinging off his shirt in the middle of a debate. It's not the most orthodox method Blaine's ever heard of, but it's undeniably an attention grabber. At least they won. He hadn't really _doubted_ that he'd win — as sweet and earnest as Brittany was at the start, her speech hadn't really connected with much of the audience.

"Congratulations," Artie says, shaking his hand before moving on to where Sugar stands by the punch; she gives Blaine an ecstatic wave before blowing a kiss to Artie.

Kurt might be interested in _that_ development. He smiles, pulling his phone out to tell Kurt all about his win. The phone rings once, then twice, then goes straight to voicemail. Blaine thinks about sending a text, but he's interrupted with a hug he doesn't see coming as Sam runs to his side.

The hug Sam gives him lifts Blaine clear off the ground; he spends a second or two with his feet kicking behind him as Sam whoops. "We did it!"

"Yeah," Blaine answers, nodding. "We won."

-

That night Blaine stays up a little later than usual, checking his email and fielding congratulations from everyone who's heard. Cooper posts to his Facebook wall ("You did it Blainey! xx") and _of course_ their great-aunt likes the comment, adding "Look at how good this will look on your transcripts!" Of course. His parents come into his room to offer their praise, hugging him close. "Columbia will love this!" his father says, clapping him on the shoulder, and Blaine gives a tight-lipped smile.

No word from Kurt though, via text _or_ Facebook.

There's another poke courtesy of the boy from the other week, and a message this time, which he reads, shifting uncomfortably and tucking his ankles up onto his desk chair.

| 

Hey, i'm a friend of wes! I saw you guys perform at regionals. Good job.  
  
---|---  
  
Before he can think up a polite reply, his phone rings, and he reaches for it without looking.

"Hello?"

"Honey. Turn on your Skype." Kurt's voice is breathless, and a tiny thrill runs the length of Blaine's body.

"But we don't have a date scheduled," Blaine says, even as his brain tells him to stop talking and sign on faster.

"That's okay," Kurt says. "But hurry up. Rachel's only going to be gone for about half an hour and I have a surprise."

"Hang on, I'm almost — oh."

Kurt's face is off camera; all Blaine can see is what look like very bare legs, blue-tinged and glowing in the light of Kurt's monitor, and then Kurt moves back and Blaine's mouth goes completely dry. He hangs up his phone and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder, hoping it lands on his bed. There are more pressing matters to attend to at the moment, like how Kurt is standing before him — so to speak — wearing what looks like a sheer white dress shirt, spotted with sequins and barely long enough to cover the tops of his thighs.

And nothing else, from what he can tell.

Kurt clears his throat. "So um. I thought I would give you a little birthday present." He looks completely at ease, and the upturn of his mouth is laced with such devious pride that Blaine bites his lip to stifle a wanton noise; he's warm, feeling slightly ridiculous in his tube socked feet, yet buzzing with arousal and half-hard already inside his pajama pants.

But. "Kurt? My birthday was two months ago, remember?"

"I know," comes Kurt's reply, and his voice takes on an altogether smoky quality that has Blaine bracing himself for something _great_. "But I heard about your victory, and I think you deserve a handsome reward." He gestures up and down his own body, making Blaine laugh.

"The handsomest, I think."

Kurt clears his throat and begins to sing, husky and smooth-voiced and so, so hot. " _Happy birthday, Mr. President_..."

Watching Kurt perform through a laptop monitor is a new experience. Blaine is too aware of the difference — he can hear, he can see, but he can't touch. Each smoldering flick of Kurt's eyes reminds him of how much he wants.

When he finishes, Kurt's voice is surprisingly level. Deceptively so, as even with the camera washing Kurt's image out, He can see the lines of Kurt's chest through the shirt, each visibly shallow breath making Blaine's own lungs contract, making his fingers curl with the craving to touch.

"So. what do you say?" Kurt asks cheekily. "Will you let me be your Marilyn?"

"But Marilyn was but a five minute affair. Beautiful brunette fashion icon? You're definitely my Jackie."

"Hm." Kurt makes a pleased, closed-mouthed sound in the back of his throat, and a warm rush of affectionate pride rides through Blaine, swirling with a yearning, aching arousal. "It's too bad five minutes is all you have time for right now, sweetie. Get your cock out."

Blaine allows himself to groan a little, a tiny sound that he doubts the microphone will even pick up. "New York's made you bossy," he teases.

"You love it when I tell you what to do," Kurt says, voice pitched even lower and hotter than before as he lifts his shirt, exposing his own cock for the camera and giving it a few light strokes.

"Yeah," Blaine says, hoarse. "Yeah, I do." He sheds his shirt without finesse or pretense; there's no time to seduce.

Kurt sighs his name in a thoroughly debauched manner, head tipped back slightly and lidded eyes focused on Blaine's. "Tell me what you're thinking."

It takes a moment for Blaine to come up with enough air to speak again, and even then he can't stop the jerky motion of his elbow, the dry friction of his hand on his cock. He brings his hand to his mouth, licking around his palm and glancing at the camera before closing his eyes and sucking around three fingers. "Ngh?" is his answer.

"Blaine, come on," Kurt pants. "Just — just talk to me."

"Want you — oh," he gasps as his hand curls back around his cock, "want you so much."

" _How_ much?"

The question is terribly unfair. Blaine is three quick tugs away from a speedy, explosive orgasm; he can't possibly be expected to articulate all the tiny aches of his own want, the sharp pull of Kurt's absence... "I wanna see you come, _please_ , Kurt, _god_ — "

"Almost — "

Blaine comes first anyway, hot and sticky in his palm, mouth falling open around a phantom shout.

"Blaine," Kurt hisses, and then he's gone, composure crumbling as he moans, _oh, oh, oh_!

Still dizzy and loose-limbed from his orgasm, Blaine grabs blindly for a tissue, watching Kurt do the same. Blaine sits up again in a stab at propriety. He wants to _see_ Kurt, angled beautifully into the camera and the shameless spread of his legs, but mostly he wants Kurt to _look_.

-

At half past seven on a Monday morning, Blaine walks into his first ever student government meeting. "Hi Mr. Figgins!" he calls to the supervising principal, who gives a startled jolt and settles back into what looks like a leisurely game of Fruit Ninja. Five minutes later, a few more students file in, moving with a sticky sluggishness that suggests they'd rather be elsewhere.

Blaine clears his throat from the front of the classroom, beaming proudly. "Hello, friends. I would like to call to order the first meeting of McKinley High's 2012-2013 student body government! When I call your name, please stand up so that I know you're present."

"Blaine," Tina groans, not bothering to open her eyes. "We're all here. There are five. People. To count. Can we just get this done so I can take a nap before first period?"

Sam nods in agreement beside her, and Brittany wiggles five fingers, shrugging her shoulders. Blaine coughs. "I guess we can move on...anyway! The first order of business is...thank you. I want to thank all of you so much." He clasps his hands together and nods at everyone in turn.

Tina does open her eyes at this, mostly to send Blaine an _are you kidding me_ glare.

"I want to let you know how much it means to me that you've accepted my offers of appointment. And, Mr. Figgins, thank _you_ for allowing me to select my own trusted cabinet."

"Not a problem, Mr. Anderson," says Mr. Figgins. "Nobody else ran." He lifts his head and blinks twice before returning to his phone.

"Oh. Well, then thank you for um, moderating!" Blaine adjusts his bowtie. "Second order of business — the rise in bullying. Now I'm sure that we can all attest to the low level of safety in McKinley's hallways."

Artie — the appointed secretary/treasurer — solemnly scribbles something down on a yellow legal pad. "Mmhmm," Brittany affirms from behind him.

"And," Blaine continues, encouraged. "Did you know that there are more students in this school who would rather turn a blind eye than lift a single finger to help?"

"Preach," Artie says, shaking his head and raising both hands.

"Moreover, there have been more cases of on-campus slushying this month than in an entire semester last year!" He slams a fist onto the podium for emphasis, making Figgins jump again. "I propose that we come up with a plan to solve this. Tina, as student life representative, would you conduct a survey and collect information from the McKinley population? We need to focus on victims of the most vicious bullying, and proceed from there."

"I — " Tina starts to speak, but Figgins interrupts.

"Mr. Anderson, I'm afraid that we cannot conduct such a risky social experiment."

"Excuse me?"

Figgins sighs, putting down his phone. "I must remind you that student security is outside of your jurisdiction." He spreads his hands, palms up, and Blaine flinches.

"I'm sorry...I was under the impression that, as student body president, the safety of my peers falls under the umbrella of my own civic duty."

"The student council exists so that you children can plan your own fancy dress parties, that's all!"

A silence drops.

"Now," Figgins says, forcedly cheerful. "I must be getting on to — to other work, now. Very busy. If we're done here, I would like to wrap up and adjourn this meeting, and obviously you cannot be in here without me, so — if you will — " He stands, ushering them out the door, before locking it behind them and shuffling briskly to his office down the hall.

They stand awkwardly in the empty hallway, feet shifting with uncomfortable restlessness. Nobody looks at Blaine.

"I'm gonna go to the Lima Bean before class starts," Sam finally mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. "Does anyone want anything?"

Blaine shakes his head, distracted. "No thanks."

Brittany and Artie follow Sam, whose "Okay, but you guys are paying for yourselves — I'm still kind of homeless..." fades with increasing distance.

"Hey, you okay?" Tina asks, placing a hand on Blaine's arm.

"Yeah." He smiles to reassure her. "Yeah, I'm fine."

She doesn't look convinced. Maybe Blaine isn't trying hard enough. "I'll see you at lunch," she says. "Save you a seat?"

"You bet!"

As she makes her way to the parking lot, Blaine wants to say something else. Instead, he walks to his locker and puts his books away, pulling his bowtie taut in his locker mirror and biting his tongue.

-

At the following week's meeting, Figgins delegates management tasks for the fall Sadie Hawkins dance. Brittany offers to plan ("I've learned that I can't dictate what anybody puts on their head, even if it makes him smell like repression and Aqua Velva.") and Tina, Artie, and Sam head the decorations committee.

Figgins claps. "Good, good! We will also need a student body government volunteer to chaperone the floor and make sure our students are not getting, how shall we say, _frisky_."

Blaine's never been fond of school dances anyway, and the only reason he'd attend one would be to stand on Kurt's arm and watch him glow. He accepts his role as chaperone in silence, raising his hand in resignation and shrugging off Tina's raised eyebrow.

-

"All right," Sam says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the corner of his towel. He sits up, reaching into his gym bag and rummaging around. "Eighty crunches down, which means snack time! What do you want? We got chips, dip, cheese, soda..."

Blaine makes a mental note to ask Sam how he keeps so fit; even with a relatively well-balanced diet and vigorous exercise, Blaine can't seem to get rid of the softness in his lower belly. "Um," he calls to Sam from across the room, stilling the McKinley gym's punching bag and unlacing his gloves. "Water's fine."

"Gotcha," Sam says, walking toward him with a bag of corn chips, a jar of what looks like Velveeta, and a bottle of water, the latter of which he tosses to Blaine before sitting cross-legged on the mat beside him.

"Is that nacho cheese?" Blaine doesn't want to be rude, so he keeps his voice light and neutral.

"Yeah!" Sam scoops up a generous serving, digging his nacho chip straight into the jar. "Sure you don't want any?"

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself." Sam stuffs the entire chip into his mouth, and Blaine winces as Sam continues to speak around his mouthful of food. "Mercedes used to tell me nacho cheese was really gross."

Blaine struggles to come up with a kind response, settling on an encouraging "I can't imagine why."

Sam doesn't look up as he swallows, instead focusing on a point somewhere between his knees. "I miss her."

"I know." What else can Blaine say? They both know what it's like; they both know the difference between them. Kurt will come back to Blaine, just as before. Sam and Mercedes are done.

"She was always meant for something bigger than me though, you know? Like, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not the love of her life or anything, and she shouldn't hold herself back for either me _or_ whoever that person ends up being."

There's a moment of heavy silence before Blaine responds with a quiet, "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"So," Sam says, setting the jar aside and switching gears effortlessly. "How's Kurt? Talked to him lately? He hasn't been on Facebook for a while."

"Yes, actually! We celebrated my win over Skype last week."

"And by 'celebrated', you mean..." Sam raises his eyebrows and forms an obscene penetrative gesture with his hands.

"It was less like that and more like this," Blaine delicately clarifies, making jerking motions in the general vicinity of his own crotch, "but yes."

"Nice!" Sam extends a fist for Blaine to bump. He turns back to his mat, and Blaine slips his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his messages. Mercedes has sent him a Facebook poke, and Blaine grins; it's almost like she knew they were talking about her. Mike leaves a link to a trailer for Dishonored, insisting they play together when he returns home for fall break. There's a comment from Eli on the video of his sophomore year regionals performance of "Raise Your Glass," complimenting the way he moves across the stage. Blaine replies to that with a brief "Aww, thanks! :)" and hits the play button, watching his younger self scamper across the stage and send moony glances at Kurt, who sways happily in the background and sends equally moony glances back.

The night of the election was the last he'd actually spoken to Kurt. Lately, for every five texts Blaine sends Kurt, he gets one back. With school and work picking up, they haven't had time to schedule another date — understandable, given that it was Kurt's departure that triggered the desire to be known as something significant, as a separate and independent entity. At Dalton he was a Warbler, at McKinley he was Kurt's boyfriend — and while he was proud to be known as both, he wants to be a part of a community that recognizes him as his own person, too.

-

Since Figgins has vetoed his anti-bullying plan of action and taken over leadership of the student body government, Blaine decides to channel his excess energy into different avenues of responsibility. Today he sits at a library table with Brittany, who needs to raise her English grade in order to stay on the Cheerios. He scans the rubric for their assigned reading responses, debating where to start.

"You did the reading assignment, right?"

"Mmhmm." Brittany nods. "Lord Tubbington's ahead of me, but I made him promise not to spoil the ending."

"Okay," Blaine says. He pulls his copy of _A Separate Peace_ out of his bag, flipping to a point in the first chapter. "So. You have Finny and Gene, and they're introduced as friends..."

"Uh huh." She props her head up with her hand, chewing on a stick of gum and training her eyes on Blaine.

"And then they have a contest, and Finny tells all the boys to jump off this branch, right?"

"Right."

"Do you remember what else happened?"

"Well," Brittany begins, solemn. "Gene's the only one who jumped when Finny told him to. Everyone else left, and then Finny and Gene sexy wrestled and it made them late for dinner...so they went back to their room to have sex."

Blaine blinks, at a loss. "I don't think that Finny and Gene were necessarily...sexy wrestling."

"What other kind is there?"

"No no, I mean — I don't think the intent was to portray a romantic relationship."

Brittany shakes her head. "We're supposed to analyze the chapter, right?"

"Yes, but — "

"That's how I see it. Gene was the only one who'd jump for Finny, and when Finny saw that he wanted to tell Gene how good that made him feel, but he couldn't say anything yet so he showed Gene how he felt with sexy wrestling. Santana does that all the time, and sex always comes after sexy wrestling."

"Got it," Blaine says, giving in. The assignment is loose, just a personal response to the reading. He figures that Brittany's interpretation is as valid as anyone's, and she's actually read the chapter — which is more than he can say for the meathead jocks they share the class with. "How is Santana, anyway?"

Brittany's face is usually sweet and placid and interestingly difficult to read. The fact that the question makes her lip quiver and her brow crease is a sure sign something's wrong. Blaine scoots closer, though he keeps an appropriate, non-threatening distance. He doesn't want to impose, but...

"Brittany? Is everything okay?"

She sighs, biting her lip before speaking. "She came up to visit this weekend."

He nods slowly, encouraging her to go on.

"She says — we need to have an open relationship."

"What?" This doesn't seem like Santana, who lives and _breathes_ for Brittany.

(Once, after a party at Sugar's house, Blaine and Santana had fallen asleep on a couch after an hour of isolated conversation. He'd woken up stiff and groggy with his head on Santana's shoulder. As his head cleared he blinked his eyes into focus and saw Brittany's head in Santana's lap, peaceful in sleep, and he leaned instinctively into the solid warmth of Kurt's chest against his back and strong arms around his waist.)

"It's better — she said it would be better — if we did this, because she doesn't want us to sleep with anyone else and then have to feel bad about it later." She drags the back of her hand lightly across her eyes.

Blaine reaches into his bag and pulls out a crisply folded handkerchief, handing it to her. She blows her nose and smiles gratefully while he tries to come up with the right thing to say.

"Is this what you want?" he finally asks.

"No." She shakes her head, staring at the wadded-up cloth in her hands. "I don't ever want to have sex with anyone else ever again. I only want Santana." She blows her nose one more time and returns the handkerchief to Blaine, who puts on a reassuring smile and pockets it gingerly. At least tomorrow's laundry day. "But if she wants to have sex with me and other people, it's better than not having sex with her at all."

Blaine takes her hand, tilting his head to the side and speaking softly. "But Santana loves you, and you love Santana. I don't understand."

Brittany's smile is bitter, and her eyes are sad; they're both emotions he never thought he'd see from her. "If I'm going to lose her, I'd rather lose her a little than lose her a lot." She can't quite meet his eyes. "Wouldn't you do the same if Kurt asked you to?"

(Fitting, too, that they had been talking of love before they fell asleep, about its highs and lows, about the way desire can burn and longing can ache, leaving you twisted-up with a masochistic craving for more. Santana had cried, sloppy with the weight of four shots of vodka, and he'd held her and told her how real love — the kind that he had with Kurt, the kind that she had with Brittany — was worth every damn second of pain, because just _look_ at what they had.)

Fiddling with the sleeve of his polo, Blaine looks away, avoiding the threat of a possible answer. "I didn't know Santana was in town," he says instead, quiet and low. "I'd have liked to say hello, if she wanted."

Brittany doesn't answer, simply taking his hand in both of her own and pressing it against her heart. Blaine lets himself smile, small and wistful. He wonders if they're all drifting apart so soon.

-

Kurt doesn't actually update his Facebook until three weeks after the election night surprise, which Blaine discovers because his feed is row after row of his friends liking Kurt's new photos. Apparently Kurt just uploaded an entire album of pictures from a party — untagged, but they appear to be from some kind of work event, judging by how Isabelle Wright appears in a fair few.

He turns Facebook chat on, hoping to catch Kurt, but Kurt E. Hummel doesn't show up in his list of online contacts. Before he can sign off, a pinging noise brings his attention to the lower right corner of his browser window.

| 

blaine  
  
---|---  
| 

hi yourself! what's going on?  
  
| 

i need you to help me pick a song for my vassar audition. i'm freaking out!!  
  
| 

tina, it's october...don't you have until january to apply?  
  
| 

early decision. my parents and i visited this summer and i fell in love

i'm going to get in if it KILLS me  
  
| 

that's great!

i haven't even started the application process yet. my dad's been telling me to get a move on, though.  
  
| 

where are you thinking of going?  
  
| 

dad wants columbia  
  
| 

woooow  
  
| 

was that a good wow or a bad wow?  
  
| 

it's a wow of wow, ivy league stud!

they can take the boy out of the prep, but...

hold on, you said your dad wants it. do YOU?  
  
| 

i don't know

hey, what do you think about something like "no one is alone"?  
  
| 

sondheim? how cliche, blaine

try again  
  
| 

sorry :( i was just trying to help  
  
| 

no no, I'M sorry <3

it's just...i don't think i've ever been this freaked out about anything in my life

i don't mean to take it out on you  
  
| 

kurt was the same way about his nyada auditions last year

i understand. i'm here if you need me.  
  
| 

thanks <3 <3 <3  
  
Talking Tina through her application anxiety makes Blaine think of Kurt's audition process, which makes him think of the NYADA audition (those pants, _god_ , the pants and the way Blaine peeled them off that night, greatest fucking privilege of his _life_ ), and the determined aplomb with which Kurt approaches everything he does. Blaine doesn't even know if he wants to follow through with Columbia, but if not, what then?

Looking into his own future is petrifying; it's like a stone strapped to his chest, weighting his lungs and demanding attention he can't afford to pay. The options aren't completely limitless, but they _are_ numerous. His father is pushing hard for Columbia, reminding Blaine that he can afford to go anywhere he chooses, and the words say _I want you to be happy_ but his tone says _I want to be happy about my investment in your future_.

And then there's Tina, who knows what she wants with an intimidating immediacy. And Kurt, who fought for his dreams and lost the battle but came up again, taking his loss and dusting himself off and reshaping his future as easily as it had come undone.

It had been easy for Blaine to nudge him to New York with a song and a kiss goodbye. Kurt was gone, charged with the unique energy that comes as a byproduct of defeat and channeling it into something great. Kurt has always aimed for triumph.

Blaine, though, is hard-pressed to come up with a vision for his own future. He sees New York, as a defining goal — specifically, _Kurt_ in New York. Humming a little bit of Joni Mitchell, he pictures himself a year forward, living in a cramped city loft, studying something indeterminable while Kurt works to support them.

Blaine's hazy, unformed future plans orbit around Kurt as a constant; to imagine a future apart from Kurt is unthinkable.

_All I really really want our love to do is to bring out the best in me and in you..._

He clicks through more of Kurt's pictures, liking a few of his favorites. He sends Kurt a message ("Hi! Love the new pictures. Let me know when you're free for a Skype date. Or a phone date. Miss you! <3"), likes Sugar's latest status ("thanksgiving cabo trip in five weeks, bitchesssss!"), and moves to clear out his own inbox.

The only new message is from Eli, Wes's friend, who compliments his latest profile picture.

| 

Lookin good! Love the cardigan.  
  
---|---  
  
| 

Thanks!  
  
| 

If sexy is a crime you'd be guilty as charged. ;)  
  
He blinks, taken aback, and types out a quick ":)" before shutting his computer down and crawling into bed to sleep.

-

Each punch feels good. It always does. Landing a perfect blow always fills Blaine with a frightening, exhilarating need for more.

Last year, Finn had discovered Blaine's boxing hobby by accident, and had looked — shocked. Intimidated, even, which isn't something Blaine is used to. Blaine doesn't _intimidate_. Blaine respects power. He's no match for institutional bias, or even the sheer physical advantage of people bigger than he is.

Finn's face, though. He'd looked at Blaine, slumping his shoulders and folding his hands, and he'd been almost...submissive, with the way his eyes widened as they took in Blaine's heaving chest, the aggression in his punches, the way he threw his weight into each blow like he meant every single one of them.

Blaine means them. He'd meant it when he told Finn that every punch was meant for a specific face. At that time it had been Finn's. Sometimes it's a teacher, or a jock. A lot of times he starts light and casual, until he starts thinking of all the ugly cruel things the world can do to a scared gay thirteen-year-old boy. Those are the times his knuckles ache from impact for hours after.

(His arms burn; there's an ache in his shoulders that spurs him on — )

He'd started boxing to fight his bullies off. If he knew how to throw a punch, his father had reasoned, he would stop getting hurt so badly. Get pushed, push back.

( — tension like a spring coiling tighter and tighter — )

Without the assaults and casual injury, he kept fighting. Punches feel _good_ ; it feels good to hit something that can't hit back, to attack something that can't get hurt, to channel his anger into something as tangible and contained as a punching bag.

( — impact, the shocking force and the seductive bliss that follows the moment he stops to rest. The syrup-slow buzz and tingle starts in his fingers and fists. It travels up his arms and makes him shudder with the fever-strong desire for _more_...)

He thinks of Mr. Figgins and throws a punch, then a flurry of jabs as he winds himself up. He thinks of his father and Columbia and slams an uppercut into the bag, sending it swinging. He pictures Kurt, independent and successful, and he stills the bag, clutching it to his chest before landing several blows. Blaine doesn't know exactly why he's so upset, brushing the aggression off as petty jealousy even as the jabs continue and the image in his head ripples, like the splash of a foot in a puddle, dissolving into a mental picture of his own empty-eyed reflection.

-

The phone rings seven times before Kurt picks up.

"Hi! How are you!" Kurt's voice is bright, though harried, and Blaine can feel his own slow-spreading grin.

"Not bad," he answers, leaning against his locker. "I'm glad we finally found a time that works for both of us."

Kurt sighs, a puff of air against his phone's mouthpiece. "Tell me about it. We get an hour for lunch over here, and that is sixty minutes out of the day that I can officially spend on _you_."

"That's sweet."

"You're sweeter."

Blaine knows he's blushing, like a blinking neon sign that says _hey, I'm head over heels for my boyfriend, slushie me now!_ "Stop," he says, ducking his head into his locker. "You're too much."

"I'm too much? You're the one who sent me a literal pile of your dirty laundry this week."

"Um. That was supposed to be romantic. Like, you being able to smell me." Blaine swallows. "That's romantic, right?"

"In an Edward Cullenesque kind of way, maybe." Kurt lets out a small laugh, and pitches his voice quieter and lower. "But I'm kidding, Blaine. It was an amazing care package. I made good use of it last night."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmhmm."

Blaine can picture the way Kurt must look right now, the picture of innocence, eyelashes fluttering, a wicked smile...he shivers despite the pleasant warmth under his skin, blinking to clear his thoughts. "I miss you," is what he says, tamping down the dozens of wildly inappropriate things he wants to say instead. "I miss kissing this and that of you..."

"And I miss your big love-crumbs," Kurt hastily interrupts, and Blaine can hear the slide and squeak of fabric against a leather chair, "but I don't think I can play right now."

"Yeah," Blaine says, trying to cool down. They can't afford to finish what's been started, not in a high school hallway and an open office, respectively. _Unsexy thoughts_ , he tells himself, fingering his bowtie. "So Mr. Schue, um, he wants us to pick a song for this week."

"Oh?"

"And I was wondering if you could help me pick out a song? I've got a few choices for a solo, and Tina wants me on piano for hers...but then I might duet with Brittany on another song, and do you think Mr. Schue will let me do both a solo _and_ a duet?"

"Well, what are your options?" Kurt's end of the line crinkles with what sounds like static, though Blaine guesses it's a hamburger wrapper.

"I'm thinking 'As Long As You Love Me' — Bieber, not Backstreet."

"Of course," Kurt says.

"Either that or '50 Ways to Say Goodbye', which is a little rough on me, vocally, but we can get the band to lower the key — "

"Wait," Kurt says, cutting him off. "What's the theme for this week?"

"Confessions." Blaine pauses. "Though it's kind of vague now that I think about it."

Kurt laughs. "Blaine, do you really want to sing a song where your girlfriend dies in a cement mixer?"

"Oh my god." How positively horrifying. "Is _that_ what it's about?"

"Honey, you might want to reconsider your choices. Do you even look up the lyrics before you choose these things?"

"I thought it was going to be about saying goodbye in a totally nonviolent way!"

"Sadly, no. Okay. Let's figure this out. Bieber sounds solid, but I'm not sure if it's the right — hold on one second," Kurt whispers, muffling the mouthpiece with what Blaine guesses is his hand. "Isabelle, hi — no, I'm done eating — yes — they _what_ , oh no, I cannot _believe_ — "

"Kurt?"

"I'll just be a minute," Blaine hears Kurt say, and then his voice is clear and sharp again as he uncovers the phone's mouthpiece, rushing out his words. "Hi, Blaine, I'm _so_ sorry, but I kind of have to cut out early — there's this thing, and Isabelle needs me to run, I'm the only one in the office since everyone else left for lunch..."

"No, I understand," Blaine says. He's abruptly chilly, tugging at the hem of his sweater vest with his free hand. "Talk to you next time?"

Kurt makes a loud smacking _mwah_ noise into his end of the line. "I promise _promise_ promise we'll absolutely get to talk more next time, talk to you later — I gotta go, I love you, bye!"

The line goes dead, and Blaine stares at his phone for a good minute before slipping it back into his pocket and closing his locker door.

-

"Okay guys," Mr. Schue says, clapping his hands together in front of a whiteboard upon which he's written CONFESSIONS in big block letters and underlined it twice. "Let's see what you all have to say!"

Jake seems to have taken the assignment a little too literally, delivering an impassioned performance of "Confessions Pt. I" by Usher, with Sugar and Unique providing backup vocals and dancing.

"That...was great!" Mr. Schue exclaims after the song. "Great job, Jake. Although," and Jake lifts his chin at the tone in Mr. Schue's voice, "next time, try to dig a little deeper into the theme. Singing is about honesty! I want to _feel_ your emotion." Jake takes a seat with a roll of his eyes that Mr. Schue either doesn't see or is purposefully ignoring. "Tina! You're up next."

Blaine passes by Jake and pats him on the shoulder on the way to the the piano. His own tension eases just a little as Jake grants him a small, lopsided smile, crossed arms relaxing.

And Blaine starts to play, the intro notes casting an eerie shadow over the room. Tina sings.

" _Excuse me, but can I be you for a while..._ "

It's not a particularly difficult song for piano. Blaine can afford to let himself drift, watching Tina and the way she's stilled the room into silence. Artie's eyes are wide, jaw slightly slack. Mr. Schue looks awed, scratching his neck and shifting uncomfortably under the power of her voice as it grows in volume and intensity.

" _I said, sometimes I hear my voice and it's been here, silent all these years..._ "

As she swoops into the chorus, she's almost yelling, but it's so intensely _personal_ that Blaine's toes curl inside his shoes and his stomach tightens. Watching Tina feels a little like the snap and release of a rubber band, the free-fall of a rollercoaster, an exhilarating thrill shot through with just the barest edge of fear.

Blaine scans the choir room again. Marley sits with her shoulders hunched and her back pressed into her chair, arms wrapped tightly around herself. He catches her eye and she looks away quickly, focusing on Tina as she closes out the song.

" _Silent all these years..._ "

There are a few beats of silence where Tina stands, arms firmly at her sides and chin jutting out like she's preparing herself for the worst. Blaine isn't sure how to react, himself. Finally, Sugar breaks the tension by giving Tina a standing ovation. "Yay, Tina!" she cheers, hopping out of her chair and bouncing as she claps. "Yaaay!" One by one, the rest of the glee club joins the applause. Marley doesn't stand, but she bites her lip and gives Tina a shaky, watery smile.

"Well." Mr. Schue looks suckerpunched and winded, like he's having trouble breathing properly. "That was...more like it! Thank you, Tina. I appreciated that."

"You're welcome," Tina says, leaning over the piano to give Blaine a high five before walking back to her seat.

Mr. Schue shakes his head quickly, like a dog out of water. "Now Blaine, I believe you're next?"

"Yes," Blaine answers, moving to a set of three stools in front of the piano. "Brittany? Sam?"

"Right-o," Sam says with a salute, picking up his guitar and taking the stool closest to him. Blaine takes the middle, and Brittany sits on his other side, legs crossed at the ankles and hands folded in her lap.

They'd decided on "Little Talks" at last week's homework session. ("I know she's not here," Brittany had said, "but I want to sing to Santana. I always do."

"I know," Blaine answered. He doesn't mention that he's singing to Kurt, too.)

Sam plucks their starting notes. "Ready?"

Brittany glances at Blaine with wide eyes and starts to sing. " _I don't like walking around this old and empty house —_ "

" _— So hold my hand, I'll walk with you, my dear,_ " Blaine answers, feeling cold and distant. His palms are sweaty, and he looks around. Artie sways in his chair, next to Joe who mouths the words and slaps his knees to the rhythm. Sugar leads the call of _Hey! Hey! Hey!_ in the choruses, stomping her feet and clapping, and one by one they all start clapping to the syncopated beat.

Tina isn't smiling, though. She bites her lip and strokes her jaw, head tilted questioningly. "What are you doing?" she hisses during the instrumental break.

" _Don't listen to a word I say..._ "

Blaine doesn't respond, losing himself in the way the band's trumpets swell into a heightened cacophony, a wall of sound crashing into the final chorus before they finish the song a cappella.

The glee club applauds, and Blaine gives Sam a pat on the back, linking pinkies with Brittany on his other side.

"Thanks, Blaine Warbler," she whispers happily, leaning in close and pecking him on the cheek.

"Excellent, excellent!" Mr. Schue beams as he claps. "Now _that_ is a confessional performance! Brittany, I've never seen you this honest. And Blaine, wow! I could almost _taste_ your sadness!"

"Ew," Brittany mutters, though Blaine's not sure anyone else can hear.

It's the last song of the day, so they pack up their things and go. The student council members have to stay to set up the upcoming weekend's Sadie Hawkins dance, though, so they move to the gym, carrying supplies and decorations.

"No," Artie says as he wheels down the hall, Sam and Brittany listening attentively beside him. "There's no way Disney can make a seventh _Star Wars_ film and not be a complete flop. History has shown that the larger a film's budget, the bigger the chances of failure are."

Blaine opens his mouth to chime in — because Disney bought Marvel, and _The Avengers_ was _great_ — but Tina grabs him by the arm and yanks him into an empty doorway, sending the streamers in his arms toppling to the ground.

"Blaine," she says, frowning deeply. She doesn't look away from him, even as she helps gather the fallen streamers. "What was that performance?"

"'Little Talks', by Of Monsters and — "

"No," Tina interrupts. "I mean...what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Tina levels her gaze. "That song wasn't just a confession, Blaine. That was a reaction."

He leans against the doorjamb, blinking rapidly. "And your song wasn't?" he bites out, cradling the bundle of streamers close to his chest lest they fall out again.

"Cut the crap. You know what my song was about. But your song was wrapped in so many freaking layers of enigmatic quandary and I can't even begin to figure it out. All I know is something's wrong that you're not telling me about, and I _care_ , Blaine." She lifts her shoulders and lets them fall, breathing deeply. "I care."

"Why aren't you asking Brittany any of this?" Blaine asks, trying to keep his voice steady. "It was just as much her song as it was mine."

"I did," Tina says. "She called me about the assignment last night, and we talked. I know about her and Santana. She doesn't know why you wanted to sing this song with her though, or what you were confessing through it, but you're clearly not okay."

Blaine laughs hollowly. "What are you talking about? What are you even trying to — to accuse me of?"

"I tell you everything, Blaine! _Everything_. And it could well be none of my business, but I'm _here_ , okay?" She spreads her palms, shaking her head. "I'm here. If you can't wake up and just, _tell_ people when things are bad, then maybe I should rethink this, because I can't keep giving so much when you keep yourself all locked up in that gel helmet of yours."

"It's just a song," he manages.

"Fine," Tina says, throwing her arms up. "I'll drop it for now. But — I'm here," she whispers, lowering her voice and touching his shoulder. "I just...wanted you to know that."

He answers with a smile and follows her to the gym, mulling over her words and the words of his song, wondering what kind of signs she had seen, what kind of trouble she was examining in him.

_Though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore..._

-

The night of the Sadie Hawkins dance arrives. Artie is DJing, playing a selection of current pop hits and classic funk. Blaine watches Unique and Marley chat by the punch bowl, sneaking occasional glances at Jake and Kitty. Kitty doesn't seem to notice the looks Jake sends back.

If Kurt were there, Blaine might even be having a good time, mouthing along to the words as P!nk's "Perfect" booms out of the gym's speakers. Blaine takes out his phone to text Kurt about it — it's as much their song as anything else they've sung to each other, together, but Blaine bites his lip as his hand curls around his phone. Would he even have time to reply? Probably not.

Without even looking at his lock screen, he stows it back in his pocket.

"Hey!" Sugar bounds up from somewhere beside him, hugging him happily and tweaking his bowtie. "I love this song! Dance with me?"

Blaine lifts a shoulder in apology. "I'm supposed to be chaperoning," he answers.

"That's okay!" She grabs his hands and laces their fingers together, waving their arms back and forth and leading him around the dance floor with swinging hips. "We can watch and dance too, and if you get in trouble I'll make Daddy buy the gym."

"That's not going to let me off the hook," Blaine says, but he lets Sugar take the lead for the next few songs. Sugar comes close to stepping on his toes with her four-inch stiletto heels, but he nimbly dodges her feet just in time, laughing and brushing off her apologies. He keeps an eye out for promiscuous couples even as he dances; after all, he has a job to do.

For the most part, the students are well-behaved. He spies a few couples with hands that wander a bit too far south for decency, but he lets it go, turning away to give them some relative privacy. There's no orgy happening in the middle of the gym, not this time, and he wants to let these kids have their night.

Artie's voice blasts through the speakers as the last notes of the current song fade out. "All right, McKinley! We're gonna slow it down just a little for y'all tonight, so grab your partner tight and get ready to make some _memories_." After a pause, he clarifies. "That was not a euphemism for sex."

_So denied, so I lied, are you the now or never kind..._

The new song starts, and Blaine sends Artie a thumbs up that he hopes he can see from the soundbooth. He brings Sugar closer, though someone taps him on the shoulder and he pulls back to look at the interruption.

"Hi," Tina says, twisting her clutch purse in front of her with both hands. "May I cut in?"

Sugar unwinds her arms from Blaine's neck and kisses Tina on the cheek. "Sure honey, he's all yours. Bye, Blaine!" She walks over to Sam, who seems to be attempting some kind of serpentine dance move against the wall, and Blaine obediently slides his hands around Tina's waist as she leans against her shoulder. They sway to the music, letting it fill the silence between them.

_Here's a toast to all those who knew me all too well..._

"I'm sorry about the other day," Tina says after a minute, lifting her head and pulling back slightly to look at him. "I shouldn't have overstepped."

Blaine shakes his head. "No. No, you're fine. We're fine." He smiles to reassure her. "I'm fine."

She smiles back, tight-lipped and quiet, resting her head back on his shoulder.

_All my time is froze in motion..._

They end up gravitating towards a crowded section of the dance floor, a mass of sticky bodies threatening to engulf them, so Blaine steers them gently to the back of the gym, where it's darker and quieter away from the lights and speakers. He can hear better now, and see better — despite the dimness, it's easier to focus without the distraction of strobe lights casting shadows.

_Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry..._

A flurry of motion catches his eye, and he turns to his left — and stills his feet. Even if Blaine didn't know the school's football team by the type of slushie they preferred to carry, he'd have recognized their status from the letterman jackets they wore over their suits, making them look even bigger, bulkier, more intimidating. Two of them stand looming over another two boys, who look young enough to be freshmen and scared enough to be in serious danger.

"Hold on," Blaine says, disentangling himself from Tina and treading closer to the action. She follows silently behind him, and as they approach unnoticed, one of the jocks speaks.

"Look at this," he says, scrubbing the heel of his palm against his greasy face, "a couple of homos trying to play house."

One of the freshmen shakes his head, crossing his arms and ducking. "We're not — we aren't _together_ , I don't know why — "

"LIke I fuckin' care?" another jock snarls, and Blaine recognizes it as the quarterback's voice. "You can fuck your little boyfriend in the ass all the fuck you want, but I don't need to see your little AIDs dance. Keep it at home, or next time? We won't be so nice."

The other freshman laughs, a harsh, bitter sound, and Blaine's stomach drops — his feet are rooted to the floor and he stands helpless and unnoticed as the quarterback grabs the boy by the collar and nearly lifts him off the ground.

"You think this is funny?" he barks. "Wait til I beat the living crap out of you, that'll teach you to laugh." With sickening force, he shoves the boy away from his body and against the wall, where the sound of impact is loud enough to shock Blaine out of silence.

"Stop!"

They turn towards him, the football players shrugging at each other and back at him as if unsure of how to handle the interruption. The first freshman looks at Blaine with big, pleading eyes, and Blaine swallows, closing his eyes against the onslaught of memories.

"I'm going to ask you to stop," Blaine says, trying to keep his breathing even.

"Or what," the quarterback asks, spreading his arms. "I'm ready. What're you gonna do, huh?" When Blaine moves instinctively to shield Tina from view, the greasy-faced one leers.

"Thought you were gay, Anderson," Greasy Face says, eyeing Tina's figure with revolting interest. "I see you upgraded. Got yourself a pretty piece of ass tonight?"

"Excuse me?" Tina steps out from behind Blaine, jabbing a finger into Greasy Face's chest. "Are you going to say that again?" Even with heels, she's barely as tall as the guy's chin, but it doesn't stop him from taking a step back. He seems to catch himself, though, and laughs too loudly.

"I could, but it'd cost you. What do you think. Sucky-sucky?"

Tina gasps, face pale in the dim light of the gym. Blaine feels his heart rate quicken. Blood rushes through his ears and he curls his fists against his sides, nails scratching against the cheap fabric of his suit. "Don't talk to her," he growls.

"Like Larry said," Greasy Face taunts, hands on his own hips. "Or _what_?"

"Or I'll rip your nuts off," the injured freshman mutters weakly from the ground, and what comes next happens almost too quickly for Blaine to process.

Greasy Face turns and lunges for the boy, knee raised to deliver a brutal kick, but Blaine tackles him at the last moment and topples them both to the ground.

"Anderson!" Greasy Face rages, growing redder as he clumsily pins Blaine to the dirty gym floor, "I'm gonna fucking kill you." The last bit is whispered so matter-of-factly, hands tight and rough around Blaine's neck, and he doesn't even have time to dwell on the chilling words before another voice cuts through the chaos like a gunshot in the air.

"Hey!" Coach Beiste shouts, running forward, more threatening in her lipstick and pantsuit than anything the football players could even try to be. "What the hell are you guys doing? Larry! Carl — get your hands off him."

Blaine takes a huge breath as the meaty hands release him. Coach Beiste yanks Greasy Face — _Carl_ — up and away in one hand, lifting Blaine up by the back of his suit jacket with the other. She bring her face close to Carl's, yelling, "The hell are you doing to these kids?"

"He started it, Coach!" Carl points to Blaine. "I didn't do nothin'!"

Blaine drops his head. He knows what it looks like. He knows what people want to believe.

"Blaine?" Coach Beiste's voice is softer, though no less imposing. "Fighting? This isn't like you."

He snorts. "You all have _no idea_ what I'm like," he says, wrenching himself out of her grasp. She lets him go without struggle. "And you should ask them first," he adds, pointing to the freshmen, the first of whom is gingerly checking the second for injuries. "They'll tell you what happened."

As he stalks towards the gym doors, he can hear Tina calling his name over the boom of the music, but he ignores the noise, shuts it all out as he steps into the gym lobby and makes his way into the basement below.

-

The basement is completely dark save for the glow of Blaine's phone screen. He fumbles for Kurt's number, pressing the phone to his ear. Voicemail. He hangs up before the greeting finishes and flips on the lights, a too-bright shock to his vision.

The punching bag hangs still and unmoving in the middle of the room, but he walks past it, sitting on the weight machine bench and crossing his arms over his stomach.

He shouldn't need to hit something whenever he gets upset. He shouldn't _want_ to. Where does that place him, if not just as low as the bullies that chased him away — that keep chasing him, no matter how far he runs? He's pathetic enough as it is; he can't crave the violence, too.

Another swipe of his phone, and no sign of Kurt returning his call. Of course.

There's a Facebook message from Eli, though.

| 

Hey, my parents aren't home. Do you want to come over? ;)  
  
---|---  
  
The meaning is unmistakable.

Blaine slips his phone back into his pocket.

-

Outside Eli's house, the wind whips through the fallen leaves on the ground, sending a small flurry onto the hood of Blaine's car. He shivers in the driver's seat.

A plane flies overhead, with its heavy engine cutting through the wind. Blaine blinks back tears. If the plane dips its wing before it disappears, he won't go inside.

Barely visible in the darkness, a squirrel scurries across the road. If it stops in a puddle of streetlight, he won't go inside.

Blaine checks his phone one last time, clutching it with shaky fingers. If he gets a call, he won't go inside.

None of these things happen, and he slumps into his seat, sinking into the leather and balling his fists. He's cold, but the suit jacket is suddenly and overwhelmingly too restrictive; he shucks it off and drops it carelessly on the passenger seat, breathing harsh and ragged. His bowtie is torn from where Carl had grabbed onto it, and he rips that off as well, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it behind him.

The porch light switches on, and Eli opens the front door.

There's no more bargaining to be done. Blaine swallows against the heavy weight in his chest, sending a prayer to a god Kurt doesn't believe in, needing desperately to put himself into fate's hands because no choice he makes ever turns out the way he needs.

"Are you coming in?" Eli calls from the doorway, casual and relaxed. Easy.

Blaine walks.

-

He squeezes his eyes shut as a hand curves possessively around his hip. _Not yours_ , Blaine thinks, but when he opens his eyes again all he sees is Eli, the dimness of his face a stark contrast to the sureness of his grip, all sexual bravado in the darkness of this unfamiliar bedroom.

("You matter," Kurt had told him, laughing into Blaine's duvet as they made love for the first time, not bothering to share the joke until the day after, when they'd talked about what they'd done over the phone in hushed, sly whispers.)

This isn't Kurt, and that's everything right now. Maybe it's all he deserves for even considering this, for going through with it. Blaine brings his hands to his throat out of habit before he remembers the ruined item on the floor of his car. He shrugs off his dress shirt, avoiding Eli's eyes, and it's in for a penny, in for a pound as he closes his eyes again and tries to forget, cups Eli's face and kisses his empty mouth and lets himself be led to the bed, knees collapsing from underneath him, two bodies tumbling soundlessly to the sheets.

-

Blaine wakes up in his own bed.

Sunlight streams through his blinds, casting horizontal shadows over his nightstand. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, he freezes as the memories from last night slam his mind like bullets.

How he'd put on his clothes, unable to look at Eli. How he'd let himself out, shutting the front door silently, How he'd driven home in a numb haze and crawled into bed, checking his phone one last time before throwing it against the wall and curling into his mattress as he willed himself to sleep.

He picks it up again, retrieving it from behind his dresser — undamaged, thank goodness — and dials Kurt's number, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for an answer.

This time, the voicemail greeting is a sickly satisfying relief.

-

"I'm going to have to tell him," Blaine says. "I have to."

"Yeah," Tina says. She laughs without smiling, hands clasped around her Lima Bean mug. "You know Blaine, when I told you to start telling me things, I didn't expect... _this_."

Blaine winces. "Do you hate me because of it?" he asks, voice quiet. He looks down at his own untouched biscotti and avoids her eyes.

"I could never hate you," she says simply, taking one of his hands. He grips it like a lifeline. "But I can't lie...I never thought I could ever be this disappointed in you." She laughs again, shaking her head. "Blaine Anderson, always exceeding expectations."

Her words are like a punch to his stomach; he feels the weight of the blow, even as she rubs her palm soothingly against his.

"Do _you_ hate you because of it?" she asks, abruptly tugging on his hand until he looks up and meets her stare.

"I don't know."

"Don't." She looks him straight in the eye. "Maybe you weren't acting like it for all of last night, but Blaine? You're too good for that."

-

"Dad?"

Blaine's father looks up, setting paperwork back onto the kitchen table, upon which an open briefcase rests.

"I um, we have a three-day weekend coming up. I was wondering — can I spend it in New York?"

"For what?"

"I...wanted to see Kurt."

"Hm," his father says. "Thanksgiving is in three weeks. Won't he be coming home then?"

"I need to do this now," he answers, and at his father's raised eyebrow he rushes out, "and I can schedule a Columbia visit at the same time, maybe shadow a student and check out the area, fly back that night."

His father nods slowly, sighing, pulling out his wallet and extracting a credit card. "You should have enough frequent flyer miles from visiting your mother's family. Use this to cover the rest."

Blaine takes the credit card, turning it over in his hands, watching the light glint off its cold, reflective surface.

-

Kurt's shocked smile is too much. It's so beautiful, so familiar, so _radiant_ that for a second he forgets the reason he came. He grins back, throwing himself into Kurt's happy, welcoming arms.

"Blaine! Oh my god, what are you doing here — come in, come in!" Kurt pulls him inside by the collar. "We were about to go out tonight — Finn's here, and we were going to karaoke at Callbacks — oh my god, this is so great, you can come too and it'll be just like next year when we're living here together and I'm so happy to see you, this is the _best_ surprise in the world!" He hardly pauses for breath, and Blaine doesn't remember seeing him this happy in months.

The knowledge of what he has to say hits him like a wrecking ball to the chest.

-

Rachel chatters happily all the way to the bar, talking about classes and a terrifying dance teacher. Finn walks behind her, notably quiet as she and her classmate Brody commiserate.

Not that Blaine feels like talking either. Mostly he holds Kurt's hand, bolstering himself. His feet are anchors, numb and lead-heavy, almost as if they belong to an entirely different person.

"Are you okay, honey?" Kurt murmurs as they enter the bar. "You seem a bit off."

"Rough flight," is Blaine's answer. He doesn't say it. Not yet.

"Why didn't you call?" Kurt nudges him playfully. "I would've made better plans!"

Blaine pushes down the urge to ask if Kurt would have picked up his phone, had he called in advance.

Finn sits off to the side of their table, watching Rachel and Brody sing "Give Your Heart a Break." Blaine eyes Finn with concern.

"Um," he says to Kurt, voice low. "Are they a thing?" He points to Rachel and Brody onstage.

" _Don't wanna break your heart..._ "

Kurt laughs quietly. "Darling, they're everything."

Blaine can feel himself cracking, his own body splitting jagged-edged down the middle, cutting clean through his heart.

"I — "

"I'm just kidding," Kurt reassures, rubbing Blaine's shoulder. "I think something happened between Brody and Rachel that they're not telling me, though. And I think Finn knows."

" _You try to smile it away, some things you can't disguise..._ "

"Sing with me," Blaine says, suddenly desperate. "Kurt, let's sing. 'I'll Cover You' — remember when we sang it together in the car, that one time we saw RENT?"

"Yes! We weren't even dating then, but _god_." Kurt smiles fondly at the memory. "I was so in love with you." He frowns, tilting his head. "Blaine?"

"Please, sing with me." His voice cracks on the last half of the sentence.

"I can't — I'm not ready, and Rachel only put your name on the list, Blaine, talk to me, what's wrong, you've been acting weird and sad all night — "

" _Please_ , Kurt — "

" _The day I first met you, you told me you'd never fall in love..._ "

"Blaine — "

Applause breaks out, shaking Blaine out of his panicked reverie, and Rachel and Brody take their seats next to a bleak-looking Finn.

"Kurt..." Blaine whispers, hardly daring to breathe. "I was with someone."

At first, Kurt shows no sign of having heard, still gentle with concern. Blaine watches for the moment Kurt's brain catches up with his heart, comprehension rising, a tide of Blaine's betrayal rushing swiftly over Kurt's face, devastating to watch. Brody looks down, Finn looks stunned, and Rachel's eyes grow wide and uneasy. She looks at Blaine like he's a stranger.

Blaine deserves nothing less.

Kurt moves away from him, eyes empty and unfocused on a point somewhere behind Blaine, and Rachel pulls him close. He trembles visibly at her touch.

"Blaine," she says, addressing him evenly. "It's your turn, up at the piano."

Wordlessly, he gets up. He knows what he's going to sing. The piano bench is stiff underneath him, and cold. He doesn't care.

"This is the song I sang the first time I ever met the love of my life," he says into the microphone, looking straight at Kurt, who avoids his eyes. He looks back down at the piano keys.

" _Things were kinda heavy, you brought me to life..._ "

The day they met, Blaine couldn't have realized that he'd be singing to the most important person he would ever know. It was a performance. Only by a stroke of luck and timing did Kurt's path cross his.

Performing is the only thing Blaine has left. Everything else — school, his future, Kurt — has fallen apart, but he can do this one thing.

" _You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream,_ " he sings, tentatively glancing back up. Kurt is watching raptly, throat working as if he's struggling not to cry. Blaine knows the feeling.

Rachel and Finn and even Brody watch too, wide-eyed in the audience. As he bites out the words, " _let you put your hands on me,_ " Blaine keeps his eyes up. He doesn't miss the way Kurt crumples — actually _crumples_ , shoulders folding in and composure falling like an avalanche — and he pounds the keys harder, sings louder, raises the volume to match his own emotional fervor.

" _This is real, so take a chance and don't ever look back..._ "

He doesn't let himself cry until the song is over.

-

That night, they lie on opposite sides of the same bed.

It takes a while to fall asleep. Though Blaine faces away from Kurt, he knows Kurt is awake, too. He knows the sound of Kurt's slumber, the rhythm of his breath, the way the mattress dips as his muscles loosen when he gives himself up to sleep.

Finn and Rachel argue on the other side of their room divider. Blaine can't hear what they're saying, but they sound angry. Rachel lets out one wrecked sob, loud in the stillness of the apartment, and Finn's voice is pleading, on the verge of tears, too.

Better that, Blaine thinks, that this quiet in Kurt's bed. Between him and Kurt lies space enough for a whole body, a silent, empty mass shaped like Kurt's absence or the instrument through which Blaine aspired to fill it.

-

Blaine wakes at five-thirty to an empty apartment, with no sign of Finn or Rachel anywhere. Kurt's side of the bed lies cold and unmade, as if he didn't want to risk waking Blaine and dealing with the aftermath of everything that happened.

He packs his bag quietly, straightening the sheets and gathering his things in silence. There's nobody to disturb, but tiptoeing around the place makes him feel careful and considerate. It's too late, but he tries anyway. It's all he can offer.

He lets himself out, still careful, still quiet.

He takes the subway to Columbia University, standing at the foot of the Low Library steps. The place is crowded with students, sitting in groups and studying alone, nobody sparing him a second glance. Despite the mass of people, he's alone and completely, utterly invisible.

A text makes his phone buzz in his pocket, and he flinches as he takes it out, half-hoping it'll be Kurt and knowing that it isn't.

> _Hi, this is Kelly from the Columbia shadow program. Are you still interested? Please let me know ASAP, so we can set up a time to meet this afternoon!_

Blaine closes his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea. He doesn't _want_ to. This has never felt like an option; Columbia feels nothing like a home. He'd get lost in the masses, no window through which to shine, no stage upon which to perform...

He's _tired_ of feeling unnecessary.

He's made his choice.

Picking his phone back up and breathing in deeply, he texts back.

> _I won't be coming by, as I've rescinded my interest. Thank you for your assistance._

He walks away, leaving the steps behind, not looking back once as he makes his way back to the subway.

He's ready to go home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank all of the friends that helped me make this possible. I couldn't have done it without them. And if that sounds like an acceptance speech, then so be it. Best Internet Friends award, 2012. I win.
> 
> Thank you to Sarah A., the first person I yelled with when the infidelity spoilers broke. Thank you to Melanie, whose texts actually sparked the idea for this fic. Thank you to Kelsey and Mariah, my amazing beta readers, who steered my iffy word choices right and who smacked me when I repeatedly used British punctuation rules. (I'm American. Don't ask me how that happened.) Thank you to Mic, my Blaine stan expert and tl;dr cheerleader.
> 
> Thank you to Andi for loving these characters enough to help me think up futures, and for hating this show enough to help me rinse them of pee. Thank you to Sarah S., who fucking _hates_ Glee and yet somehow loves me enough to read my works-in-progress and cheer me on. Thank you to Rachelle and Isabelle and Shannon and Mandee, barely even IN this fandom, who stuck with me during the late nights as I typed and typed and tried not to scream. Thank you to Ami and Jolie for being so supportive and helpful as they read over rough, unfinished drafts. Thank you to Elizabeth, who actually volunteered to help me hand-code the HTML in all _thirty pages_ of this document.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who liked even a single one of my numerous peewrite posts. Your support is the best.
> 
> I'd give up touching butts for you all.
> 
> There is a part 2 in the works, ~~but to be honest I don’t know if I’ll be able to deliver. This fic was fueled by my own righteous rage, and the existence of part 2 will depend on how much of Ryan Murphy’s pee flies into my mouth as he brings our boys back together.~~ fuck it i'm starting it idec


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